


Open Eyes

by ReticentGrace



Category: Jak and Daxter
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Daxter is SORT of Human now, Daxter is really fucked up, Embarrassing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Feels, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Medical Trauma, Military Backstory, Short, Short One Shot, Someday, Torn is Fucked Up, What Was I Thinking?, might be more - Freeform, quickly written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3257180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReticentGrace/pseuds/ReticentGrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The first time he opens his eyes, all he manages are screams."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely my girlfriend's fault for replaying these games, recently. Also, I notice there's almost NO info about Torn or Daxter, canon-wise....as far as I know. So it's entirely possible for me to do...whatever I want bwahahaha...
> 
> ...no really I am still so embarrassed. Ugh. Okay, I'm gonna go hide under the couch now. I wrote this in under an hour, so...wooo! YOLOSEYH ((You Only Live Once So Embarrass Yourself Horribly!!!)).
> 
> I'll write more if this generates any interest...maybe? I don't know. I doubt many people frequent this section. ಠ_ಠ
> 
> \----------------------------------------

The first time he opens his eyes, all he manages are screams. They rip from his throat inhumanly, inhumanely- an unforgiving wail of pain and mourning. In those moments it's hard to think of how young the poor child is; adolescence had barely brushed kisses to the boy's soft cheeks before trauma had taken over...his shadow was longer than he was tall not by feet, but by miles. 

He fights against the hands pressing him into the sterile bed...he fights against the IVs, the monitors....he doesn't still his thrashing until you slip your hand into his, intending to shove either wrist to the mattress. Before you can swing your leg over the bed and push your weight into all 90 pounds of genetically wrecked, half-human boy...he stops. His fingers lace up with yours so desperately, so carefully...

...the screams fade to whimpers. The whimpers to mewls. You aren't sure what to do; aren't sure you remember the last time anyone touched you gently. Your Mother and Father are memories faded and singed at the edges, burned away from your brain by the flames of war and a wave of bitter, dizzying bile. When no one says anything...when the nurse doesn't blink and your seconds don't balk...you try. You sit down and glare at the floor, at your feet. You do anything except think about what you're about to do.

You let him hold your hand. If you hold back...if your fingers brush his small palm where no one can see...it doesn't hurt anyone. He has almost no calluses- his hands are soft and the lines are thin and short...so small. You catch your fingertips brushing along those lines, following them like trails on a map. If they were roads they'd have ended too soon; cut off abruptly, torn from the paper with the edge of a harsh blade. 

His fingers clench in yours and when you turn your gaze upward, two seas of stormy cobalt flicker, unfocused, across your face...half blind but still searching, and when you meet them you aren't sure what you're supposed to feel...what you need to show him to make it better. You've never wanted to make it better, before. You've never wanted to be emotionally available to other people...to be emotionally available to yourself. Your life is army drills that you still practice and Hair that you still dye crimson in recognition; it's push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, and the upturned end of near empty whisky glasses. 

Your life isn't, and never has been, 'feelings', but...he needs hem and you have a sudden want that you haven't had since you were his age. You don't smile...you aren't sure you know how to do anything except smirk facetiously at people, anymore. Your lips are as broken as your heart, and you're not sure you'll ever be able to make those expressions, again...comforting expressions. Human Expressions.

You don't smile, but something in your eyes, the tight grip of your hand in his...it's enough. When you nod, he nods back, breath a harsh, foggy exhale against a clear plastic mask- his head lays back against the pillow, drops like a stone. He stops fighting, stops trying to escape, and his nails stop pressing white pressure-crescents into your tanned skin. His brows knit and his eyes close. 

When the nurses and guards leave the room to spread news, to take breaks, to analyze charts and treatments and schedules to death...you wait for the door to close. As soon as it clicks shut, you scoot a bit closer in your chair.You ruffle messy ginger hair with your free hand, pushing it behind ears that aren't human or animal, anymore, and you wonder if your brother's hair was so soft, when he was still alive.

You wonder, and you remember...and it hurts, but you stay. It is an agony you never allowed yourself, and now it's being forced upon you. You're strong enough to stop it, but you don't...and some part of you becomes more human. Some part of your soul, your heart, fits your name. It took bright eyes closing and a small hand slackening in yours to make you Torn...just like it had before. 

 

This time, they'll open again. You know they will- you don't hope, can't hope, but you KNOW.

 

They will open, and maybe, this time...

 

...you can fix something, instead of watching it shatter.


End file.
